


Interlude 1: The Woman

by ManicMoose



Series: The Scientific Method [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Irene Adler, Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fake Science, Gender Issues, Idiots in Love, Jealous John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, POV John Watson, Pining John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-05 07:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10301324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManicMoose/pseuds/ManicMoose
Summary: Five weeks after what he’s privately come to think of as ‘The Absolute Worst Mistake of His Life', John Watson meets Irene Adler and summarily curses whatever higher power is out there that- as he’s long suspected, but is now sure- has it in for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And we switch it up to look at things from John's perspective for a bit! The first bit of this will make little sense without reading ['Scientific Rigour'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10074368) first, though I guess the rest makes sense on its own. On that note, while I'm working on Irene's return and will be posting that as the second chapter of this (for the sake of keeping things tidily grouped), this chapter can absolutely be read as a standalone.
> 
> Disclaimer: Playing it fast and loose with time and space, y'all. There are events from canon I want to use, but couldn’t feasibly fit together into my timelines; so I decided to commandeer some artistic licence and rearrange and/or smoosh things about to suit my own purposes!
> 
> (Also, thanks to Ariane DeVere for the [transcript ](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/26397.html#cutid1) of A Scandal in Belgravia, without which I would have been lost.)

John wakes up, sore and sticky, to find that Sherlock’s heat has finally passed. He rubs his eyes groggily and rolls over to find Sherlock still asleep, snuffling softly into the pillow next to him. Twisted up in the sheet, his skin mottled with whisker burn and bruises, and hair a riotous cloud, he still looks a vision. John allows himself to a moment to enjoy the sight; quietly ignoring the strange, tight feeling growing uncontrollably in his chest. And then Sherlock stirs, blinking those pale, verdigris eyes muzzily up at him, and he realizes that he has absolutely no idea what to say.

Everything seems suddenly very different in the cold light of morning, than it has over the past two breathless, hazy days.

There are no more pheromones leaving him in a buzzy state of bliss, entirely convinced that he could have what he wanted so very badly, without any consequences. Much more importantly, in worryingly short order, there is quite suddenly no Sherlock.

After four hazy blinks, Sherlock's expression shutters, and he rolls from the bed wordlessly- sheet and all- to beat a hasty retreat to the loo. Said retreat sends John rocketing away from ‘sleepily unsure’ and straight into ‘thoroughly panicked’. His stomach rumbles loudly, informing him that he’s also positively famished- and that, in all honesty, seems like a much simpler problem to address in comparison.

So, while the shower starts up behind the closed bathroom door, he clambers out of bed and locates his clothes from the four corners of the bedroom. He briefly considers dashing up to his room for a change of clothes, but another loud grumble of his stomach has him deciding against it. Instead, he rummages through the fridge and sets to making them a proper fry-up, carefully avoiding so much as a glance in the direction of the barstool over which he’d bent Sherlock just the day before.

Sherlock finally emerges just as the kettle clicks off, immaculately dressed and perfectly coiffed, looking like nothing so much as a bloody advert for Savile Row. He swans into his usual chair at the table silently, and as John fixes their tea he catches himself staring out the corner of his eye, trying and failing to suppress the incredulous mantra of _oh my god I’ve put my hands and mouth all over him._ Unshowered and clad in his rumpled clothes from three days ago, he feels a startling wave of self-consciousness that he hasn’t around Sherlock since they’d first met.

He tamps down on it quickly, squaring his shoulder and raising his chin like a good soldier. _No way out but through._

He realizes of course, as he sets a mug and heaping plate of breakfast down in front of Sherlock, what a colossal waste it is presenting Sherlock anything besides the tea. To his astonishment however, rather than picking at his plate like some sort of overly-particular exotic bird, Sherlock tucks right into it voraciously. John sits himself down across from him with his own breakfast, goggling in surprise at the turnabout from the usual state of affairs. He generally counts himself successful if he’s able to wheedle or coerce Sherlock into nibbling at a slice of toast. And here he is, practically _inhaling_ a full English like a ruddy teenager. John starts in on his own plate with a disbelieving grin just as something possessive and self-satisfied stirs inside of him; purring in delight over providing so well for _his_ Omega.

The thought is like a shock of cold water to the face.

Sherlock isn’t _his._ Just because he’d… helped him- _bent him over, spread him wide, buried his knot in him over and over again-_ the Alpha inside of him supplies proudly _._ _Oh god._

He hadn’t _helped_ him _._ He’d taken advantage is what he’d done. He should have walked out of that room two days ago, without a second thought. Not done… _that_. And now here he was sat, thinking of Sherlock as _his_ \- because what? Because he’d knotted him? That didn’t give him any sort of claim over him.

Sherlock was… Sherlock. His best friend. Brilliant, gorgeous, and absolutely barking Sherlock, who loathed the strictures set upon him by virtue of his gender. Who single-handedly upended every stereotype about Omegas there ever was, carelessly and unapologetically. Who’d saved him when he’d thought his life was over. And John had just… thought of him as _his._ Just because Sherlock had asked, and had seemingly enjoyed it at the time…that didn’t make it _right_ , what John had done.

Christ, what if he’d forgotten himself in the moment and _bonded_ Sherlock?

He was the worst sort. No better than any of the over-bearing, entitled Alphas he’d spend his whole life detesting. _God._ The food turns to sawdust in his mouth.

If Sherlock knew what he’d been thinking just now- even for so much as a moment, even unconsciously… He’d be disgusted. Or horrified. Or both. An anxious swell of nausea rises up inside him. What if Sherlock _does_ know what he was thinking?

He looks up at Sherlock, who’s finished his meal and is sitting, silently sipping his tea while staring blandly at something just past John’s shoulder. Probably thinking about how best to explain to John and his simple mind that what they’d done was under no circumstance to happen again. Possibly contemplating how best to inform John he was to pack his things and vacate Baker Street, posthaste. Seized with a sudden, blind panic to preserve their friendship, and to salvage whatever might be left of Sherlock’s opinion of him, John speaks up.

“This-” he starts, focusing on keeping his voice level. “...This doesn’t _change_ anything between us Sherlock. You know that, right?” He tentatively meets Sherlock’s gaze, and prays desperately for Sherlock to hear his unspoken words. _I don’t want to change you, I don’t think you belong to me, I don’t see you- see any Omega- as something to own. To have, wet and needy, and writhing beneath me… oh god._ His mouth goes dry with anxiety as his thoughts veer off, and he takes a sip of tea to wet it enough to continue. “You can just… delete it, yeah?”

Sherlock stares at him inscrutably for a moment, then nods tightly and springs from the table. The relief is like a tidal wave, crashing over John violently. He doesn’t even realize that he’s been holding his breath, until he’s gratefully rediscovering air. Meanwhile, Sherlock dons his coat and sweeps from the flat, tossing a brusque explanation about seeing Molly for some sort of specimen over his shoulder.

And so John busies himself, stripping Sherlock's sheets and tidying the mess they'd made; no trace of their time together apparent by the time Sherlock returns, hours later.

Just like he'd said would.

 

* * *

 

Five weeks after what he’s privately come to think of as ‘The Absolute Worst Mistake of His Life’, John Watson meets Irene Adler and summarily curses whatever higher power it is out there that- as he’s long suspected, but is now sure- has it in for him.

Sherlock may have agreed to delete the… _incident_ , but John has never claimed to have the same ability.

There’d been a good week of awkward tension, but they’d thankfully managed to fumble their way back to their usual camaraderie without much fuss. Which isn’t to say that John hasn’t been struggling with that dark, unwelcome Alpha part of his mind, and it’s recurring insistence that Sherlock is _his_. He’s never really identified with that side of himself before, but it’s as if those two days of heat unlocked something inside of him, and he’s been stuck trying to wrestle it back ever since; if only to prove to himself that he can.

He’s also spent a frankly inadvisable amount of time guiltily wanking to memories of Sherlock in the shower. He _is_ only human after all. A bloke can’t just have the best sex of his life, and then just _forget_ about it. What he does or thinks in private has no bearing on their friendship- so long as Sherlock never, _ever_ finds out.

And he hasn’t, thank god. In fact, John’s actually quite chuffed over how well he’s managed to keep his feelings hidden from _Sherlock Holmes,_ of all people. But, between the very _visual_ reminder of Sherlock swanning about in nothing more than a bedsheet, and then their grapple outside in the street, today has been particularly trying.

So when he walks back into Irene’s posh parlour and finds her straddling Sherlock’s lap in all her very _naked_ glory, his brain nearly short circuits.

Sherlock's expression is endearingly bewildered; eyes blown wide and fixed in on her as though John doesn’t even exist. The Alpha inside of John positively seethes, and it takes everything he has to keep it hidden below his surface. He makes some childish quip about _having tea,_ of all things, in an effort to redirect Sherlock’s attention, even if it’s only to roll his eyes or mock John’s inanity.

But when Sherlock’s gaze finally turns John’s way, it’s a fleeting thing; snapping back to _Her_ in the span of a breath. John can’t help the deeply uncomfortable feeling that he’s being… _compared_ to Irene Adler- and found wanting. He’s so thrown by it that he checks out of their witty little repartee until Irene taunts him back to attention with four little words.

“And somebody loves you.” She announces snidely, and his eyes cut to Sherlock in alarm. He’s vaguely aware of her leaning forward in his periphery, but is too focused on gauging Sherlock’s reaction to care. The pronouncement doesn’t seem to register as important to Sherlock, thank god. But when John turns back to Irene and meets her mocking eyes he feels peculiarly vulnerable.

It’s as though she’s flayed him open and laid bare all his deepest secrets, all within a glance. It reminds him not to a small degree of Sherlock; but with none of his delight, or oddly endearing lack of tact. It's then that he realizes, without any doubt, that she’s somehow _entirely_ aware of his feelings for Sherlock. He hardens his gaze at her and refuses to flinch; Alpha to Alpha. Her lips curl tauntingly as she continues.

“Why, if _I_ had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth too.”

He forces a pained laugh to disguise his unease. “Could you put something on, please? Anything at all,” he scornfully offers her the napkin in his hands. “A napkin?”

“Why?” She smirks back at him. “Are you feeling exposed?” And goddamn her; there’s no point in denying it.

Yes, he most definitely he is.

Apparently oblivious to the Alpha posturing in the room, Sherlock stands. “I don’t think John knows where to look.” he says, dismissively, as he offers his coat.

“No, I think he knows exactly where.” Irene rises in turn, not taking her eyes from John’s for an instant as she struts past the proffered Belstaff. She stalks right into his personal space- a tacit challenge to his territory- then reaches back to accept Sherlock’s coat smugly, wrapping herself in Sherlock’s scent. The gesture makes John’s eye twitch, and he struggles to maintain his composure as his inner Alpha snarls furiously. “I’m not sure about you,” she quips at Sherlock, haughtily turning away from John.

“If I wanted to look at naked women I’d borrow John’s laptop.” Sherlock declares, wandering away toward the fireplace disinterestedly. The seeming detachment from his Omega soothes John’s Alpha ire, until he realizes he’s unthinkingly claimed Sherlock again, which only sets him off anew.

“You _do_ borrow my laptop,” he points out, as much to himself as to Sherlock.

“I confiscate it.” Sherlock counters, as though that settles the matter. And for the moment it does. Completely inexplicably, Irene begins to question them about the death of hiker, leaving Sherlock uncommonly flustered, and before long, John is being ordered from the room.

_Like a loyal dog,_ his mind helpfully supplies.

As he steps out into the hall, and begins searching for something flammable, the Alpha inside of John, well provoked, rages. _No, no, no._ This is all _wrong_. Sherlock said he preferred sire-gendered males, he _did_. And this- this- _Woman_ , while she may be an Alpha, is most certainly _not_ that.

John nearly rolls his eyes, but thankfully manages to maintain an outer calm. The last thing he needs is for someone to catch him both setting off the alarm _and_ arguing with himself like a nutter. No, Sherlock said he was _inclined_ toward the sire-gendered;  _if pressed_. His overall disinterest in sex was the far more important bit of the matter. That he _preferred_ male sires had seemed an afterthought at best. Not what one would call a definitive preference. And Irene is… well, a gorgeous, posh Alpha that can keep up with Sherlock intellectually. John can’t imagine a more perfect match. It absolutely kills him, but he can’t.

And that’s when, of course, everything goes to shite.

 

* * *

 

Sometime later, he kneels in Irene Adler’s bedroom, her cruel eyes lit up in pleasure as she says, “You know, I was wrong about him. He _did_ know where to look.”

“For what? What are you talking about?” He stands to face her, his Alpha instincts refusing to allow him to kneel and look up at her as she taunts him. He pretends not to remember precisely what she’s referring to.

“The key code to my safe.”

“What was it?” He asks, though he suspects if she’s so delighted by it, he won’t want to know the answer.

“Shall I tell him?” She asks, turning her teasing gaze to downward, and John follows it, to where Sherlock groans unintelligibly at his feet, fruitlessly struggling to get up. He looks back up to meet Irene’s eye and she smiles, baring her teeth in fierce Alpha delight. It’s the triumphant look of an Alpha who’s beaten another.

“My measurements.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops- I accidentally wrote twice as much as I meant to.

Two weeks after Irene's little disappearing act, Lestrade shows up with the Cavendish case, and it’s not a moment too soon.

Sherlock has spent days on end out of sorts, and it's honestly beginning to drive John around the bend. He’s been flopping about the flat listlessly, sleeping for unusually long stretches and turning his nose up at anything other than tea and toast. John would be inclined to assume he's coming down with something, if it were anyone but Sherlock; who, for all intents and purposes, has always appeared to be immune to such weaknesses of lesser mortals.

To make matters worse, he knows damn well that Irene's been texting Sherlock since she vanished. For all the Sherlock is so quick to imply the John is an idiot, he’s really not. With how often that distinct moan has been sounding out within the confines of 221B, it had only taken him a handful of texts to place the voice. And there's been forty of them.

As much as he’d like to deny it, it eats at him; the idea that it might very well be _her_ that has Sherlock in such a strop. The beautiful, posh, _brainy_ Alpha who beat Sherlock Holmes. The situation isn't improved by the fact that every time John forgets himself, and considers checking Sherlock for fever, he's struck by a vivid recollection of exactly what happened the last time he did so, and his prick grows embarrassingly stiff in his trousers. Which is- well, he's a _doctor_ for God's sake; that's just not on. So he finds himself tiptoeing about the flat, giving Sherlock as wide a berth as possible.

Besides, if Sherlock _is_ unwell and simply refusing to admit it, then John isn’t going to force the issue. A touch of flu is hardly life-threatening, and John isn’t his mother, or his Alpha.

So when Lestrade shows up with the case of the dead Alpha and his missing Omega, John’s eager for the distraction.

Just as soon as Sherlock finishes his bloody tea.

“I _said_ \- I. Don’t. _Want._ It!” Sherlock protests irritably, crossing his arms over his chest in a remarkable impression of a tetchy toddler. “I had toast just this morning, and I don’t see why you insist on forcing food upon me constantly!”

“You were sick after eating this morning!’ John argues in return, pressing the edge of the plate insistently against Sherlock’s crossed arms. Alright, so he had been _planning_ not to press it, really, but he can hardly stand by as a doctor and allow Sherlock to neglect his health _entirely_. “I heard you, don’t bother denying it. You need something in you before we leave the flat, or you’re going to collapse. Doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock casts a beseeching eye toward Lestrade, as if the Detective Inspector will intervene on his behalf. John levels a dangerous look over his shoulder, on the off chance that Greg is considering it.

“Oh, for Christ's sake, just listen to the man and eat the bloody sandwich, will you!” Lestrade rolls his eyes and exclaims exasperatedly around a mouthful of biscuit. Sherlock glares murderously at them both as he grudgingly accepts the plate and takes a dramatically delicate bite. From the way he carries on, would think it’s arsenic-laced egg salad that’s long gone off, not a simple cheese and pickle.

 

* * *

 

Despite his reservations, Sherlock manages to choke down the sandwich in record time, and they depart for New Scotland Yard in fairly short order. With no active crime scene to pick apart as of yet, they hole up in Lestrade’s office with the entirety of the case files instead.

It seems to be off to a brilliant start; Sherlock praising him exuberantly for making a rather simple medical deduction when, in the midst of it, something…changes.

Lestrade misses it entirely, but John notices the falter, and the way something in Sherlock's expression shutters closed. Then he opens his eyes and delivers a brilliant stream-of-consciousness deduction, flipping through pages worth of evidence like it’s all little more than a simple connect the dots. Very _unlike_ usual, however, rather than making demands and dashing off the to scene- police permission or no- Sherlock simply rattles off a list of necessary _warrants_ that need to be acquired before further action can be taken, and promptly _leaves._

It would be easy to chalk it up to his usual post-deduction disinterest, but the fact that the case is very much so unconcluded tells John that something is different than usual. Though Lestrade doesn’t seem as terribly bothered by it as John is.

“Actual, honest to God _warrants_ , John. _Warrants_.” He shakes his head, marvelling as he settles in at his computer to begin the necessary work with a pleased grin. “I might actually be able to do this case without having to fudge the paperwork at _all_.”

John helps with what he can, mildly distracted the whole while, then heads back home to the flat. He thinks at first that it might possibly have something to do with the case- the Omega and her lack of freedom, perhaps- but they’ve had plenty of cases with Omegas, and Sherlock’s never seemed affected by them before.

Then he returns home to find Sherlock ensconced in the loo and puts two and two together; the great Sherlock Holmes is indeed ill after all, but too embarrassed to concede his humanity. He tries to offer his help, but to his complete lack of surprise, is roundly ignored. So he fixes Sherlock a cuppa and leaves it outside the bathroom door before heading upstairs for a nap.

He awakes much sooner than he’d have liked. to Sherlock bursting into his room- malaise apparently entirely forgotten- loudly insisting that they depart _immediately_ to the newly re-established scene of the crime. _Clearly someone's feeling better._ He brushes off any concern he’d been feeling with a grin, and throws himself down the stairs at Sherlock’s heels.

Then Irene Adler goes and dies, and for the first time life, John truly understands the sentiment of wanting to bring someone back from the dead just to have the pleasure of killing them all over again.

 

* * *

 

As if Sherlock’s eating habits weren’t already lackluster, they grow worse over the next few weeks following Irene’s demise. He rarely, if ever, touches the breakfasts that John or Mrs. Hudson present him with, and picks at his dinners even more disinterestedly than usual. John tries to reason with him that he can hardly subsist on tea alone, but his pleas go unacknowledged.

When he can’t take any more of Sherlock’s silent composing and mournful violin, he makes his escape; only to be snagged at the doorstep by one of Mycroft’s beautiful beta lackey’s, and bundled off to the empty husk of Battersea. Despite himself, he can’t help but be entertained by the latest of their increasingly ridiculous meeting places. _Power complex indeed._ Never let it be said that there isn’t a significant flair for the dramatic in the Holmes blood.

“He’s writing sad music, doesn’t eat, barely talks – only to correct the television.” He announces preemptively as he strolls into the room, turning about as he does, taking in the cavernous shell of the room. The sooner he gives the busybody Holmes Alpha what he wants, the sooner he can get on with his day, after all. “I’d say he was heartbroken but, uh, well, he’s Sherlock. He does all that anyw-” The person who emerges from between two massive control panels when he turns to face them, however, is decidedly _not_ Mycroft.

“Hello, Doctor Watson.” Irene Adler greets him, and he’s unable to hold himself back from growling, low and deep, in response.

She gives her explanations and her excuses, and he argues back; seething with rage as he thinks of the wan look that’s overlaid Sherlock’s face ever since her ‘death’. Sherlock can deny it all he likes, but John knows that since the moment he met her, he’s been enthralled by her. And that she should so effortlessly attain the unattainable, then be so cruelly careless with it…

Every atom of his of his being, Alpha or otherwise, longs to tear out her throat. It takes all his willpower to turn heel and force himself to march away instead. When she calls after him as he’s storming away, asking him what she should say, the strained tether on his fury finally snaps.

“What do you normally say? You’ve texted him a _lot_.“ He explodes, swiveling back around to stalk back toward her.

“Just the usual stuff.“ She replies offhandedly as she pulls out her phone.

“There is no _usual_ in this case.“

“ _Good morning; I like your funny hat; I’m sad tonight. Let’s have dinner …_ ” She reads aloud with an amused quirk to her lips, thumbing through her messages. _“You looked sexy on ‘Crimewatch. Let’s have dinner; I’m not hungry, let’s have dinner.”_

“You... _flirted_ with Sherlock Holmes?“ He asks incredulously.

“ _At_ him,” she corrects, keeping her eyes on the screen. “He never replies.“

“No, Sherlock _always_ replies – to everything. He’s Mr Punchline. He will outlive _God,_ trying to have the last word.“

“Does that make me special?” She looks up, pleased as a cat with the cream at that.

John hesitates a beat, loathe to cede so much as an inch to her. “I don’t know. Maybe.

“Are you jealous?” She smirks; that same goddamn smirk as always, the one that says she’s better, smarter, more Alpha-like than him, and she knows it.

“We’re not a couple.” He defends, cringing internally at how pathetic it sounds. At how he so blatantly avoids answering her question, and they’re both aware of it. But it’s true. Because John Watson is too boring- too _pedestrian_ \- to ever be Sherlock Holmes’ Alpha.

“Yes you are.” She says dismissively as she types something into her mobile- as though it’s indisputable fact, and he’s just thick. “There,” she says, holding her phone up to face him. “I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner.” She presses the send button and he turns away, furious. He can't decide if he’s angrier at her for being alive, or himself; for pushing her toward Sherlock even though he’d like nothing better than to rip her apart. But he’ll do anything for Sherlock, even if it’s helping him be with someone else.

Staring across at her in an abandoned power station, John pushes down the bubbling rage inside himself and feels a certain exhaustion and defeat settle in his bones. He doesn't know why he says what he does- to convince himself perhaps, or salvage what little bit of dignity he has left as an Alpha- but the words spill out of him anyways. “Who... who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but – for the record – if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually interested in Omegas.”

“Well, neither am I. Look at us both.” She replies thoughtfully.

John huffs a bitter laugh in response. Then the sudden sound of a familiar sigh echoing out in the corridor startles them both. The dense feeling of guilt settles heavily in his stomach as he listens to the dull clatter of rapidly retreating footsteps.

Well, _fuck._

 

* * *

 

When he finally he forces himself to return to Baker Street, the dramatic encounter with the Americans serves as a perfect distraction from any anticipated awkwardness. Sherlock clearly takes pleasure in dealing with them; part summary justice for the abominable treatment of Mrs. Hudson, and part obvious vent for his recent frustrations. John takes equal pleasure in fussing over Mrs. Hudson, pleased to have a vent of his own for all his pent-up need to tend to someone.

Once Lestrade’s come and collected the quite sufficiently injured party, Sherlock finally joins them in the kitchen. While John tries to insist on sending her on a little holiday, Sherlock- in a move that seems entirely out of character as of late- cheerfully raids her fridge for a late night snack.

“Don’t be absurd,” he scolds, biting into a mince pie with a relish John hasn’t seen him in weeks. John stares. _Who is this man, and what has he done with the brooding, withdrawn Sherlock Holmes?_

“She’s in shock, for God’s sake, and all over some bloody stupid camera phone.” John huffs irritatedly. “Where is it, anyway?”

“Safest place I know,” Sherlock quips, looking down at Mrs. Hudson, and John could almost swear there’s a playful note in his voice. When she pulls the camera phone from her bra, John can hardly believe it. Though, with the woman’s personal history, he supposes he really shouldn't be all _that_ surprised.

“You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown, you clot.” She laughs, resting her head on her hand tiredly. “I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry.” He gawks between the two of them, completely bewildered as Sherlock thanks her and tosses it in the air jauntily before tucking it into his coat.

“Shame on you, John Watson,” he rumbles, and John blinks up at him.

“Shame on _me?!_ ”

“Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street?” Sherlock questions sternly, wrapping an arm about her shoulders and tugging her close in a playfully protective gesture. “England would fall.”

It warms John to the core seeing her laugh, and stroke Sherlock’s hand affectionately. It’s so much like the way things used to be, before The Woman swaggered into their lives. And so, for the moment, he smiles up at them warmly, and lets himself bask in the sweetly domesticity of it, while it lasts.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, he and Sherlock head back upstairs for the night. Once he’s rebuilt the fire, fixed himself a drink, and made a rather pointless small talk about the damned phone, John admits he’s run out of ways to avoid addressing the elephant in the room. And so he takes a deep breath and steels himself.

“So, she’s alive then,” he ventures carefully. “How are we feeling about that?”

Sherlock says nothing as he fiddles with his violin.

Determined to wrest some kind of response from the detective, John tries again, asking the question he doesn’t really want to know the answer to. Sherlock’s always been especially good at telling him what he doesn’t want to hear. “Do you think you’ll be seeing her again?

Sherlock turns to him finally, flipping his bow and avoiding John’s eyes. He finally fixes John with an especially cryptic look once he pointedly begins to play. John settles silently in his chair to listen.

It’s a silly question after all.

Of course he will.


	3. Chapter 3

They don’t talk about it after that. Though Sherlock begins behaving oddly- for lack of a better word- _clingy_.

He does as John asks of him with little fuss. Pecks hesitantly the meals placed in front of him without complaint, regardless of his obvious distaste. And, most surprising of all; inches slowly closer to John on the sofa in the evenings while they watch telly, until his feet end up resting in John’s lap, or tucked under his thigh, or his head settles against John’s shoulder. He’s obviously trying desperately to be furtive about it though, so John deliberately pretends not to notice. He’s actually not even sure if this is one of those instances where they’re both _pretending_ to be oblivious or if, this once, Sherlock genuinely believes him to be entirely unaware.

Little more than a week later, Sherlock even deigns to accompany him to Tesco’s to do the shopping- an event so rare that it was probably foretold by some long dead mystics- and when they return home, it’s to find a decidedly uninvited houseguest.

In Sherlock's bed.

The very bed that they shared Sherlock's heat in, the same _sheets_ even _._ And when did those find their way back onto Sherlock's bed? John could have sworn he’d tucked them away in the upstairs cupboard, after laundering them within an inch of their lives. And now they're covered in Irene Adler’s scent.

Something dark and feral stirs inside of him, and he turns and walks away before he does something that he'll regret.

 

* * *

 

Once again, Irene ends up wrapped up in Sherlock’s clothes and nothing else, though this time it’s his best dressing gown that she wears like a badge of honor. It has her scent intermingling with Sherlock’s, in way that’s reminiscent of that of a bonded Omega. The whole time they’re questioning her, John can’t help but distractedly think that it’s what Sherlock might come to smell like, if he were to bond with her.

Then Sherlock tries tricking her with a dupe camera phone, which doesn’t fool her for a moment, and he gazes down on her in captivated admiration as he hands her the real thing.

“Oh, you're rather good,” he confesses. The praise, as rare as it is, seems to drip like honey from Sherlock's mouth. It's like that bloody voice of his was designed for it.

“You're not so bad,” Irene smirks back up at him, her lips curling artfully; the very picture of a preening, seductive Alpha. They stare at one another intensely, their faces entirely too close, and John half expects her to try and mount Sherlock any moment.

_For God's sake, it's like he isn't even in the bloody room._

“Hamish,” he interjects, unable to resist the desperate desire to disrupt their focus on one another any longer. It’s successful, as they break their stare to turn to him in puzzlement instead. _Oh good; so he_ hasn’t _gone and suddenly ceased to exist then._ “John Hamish Watson, just- if you were... looking for baby names.” He elaborates, just barely managing to keep the bitterness from his voice.

Irene’s upper lip curls almost imperceptibly in irritation, and she sneers down at him, clearly not misinterpreting the reason for his interruption in the slightest. Sherlock, on the other hand, stares at him in startled confusion, his eyebrows drawing together minutely. He looks strangely… _alarmed_ by John's suggestion. Perhaps he's concerned that John disapproves of- of- whatever the hell it is between he and Irene. The unease on Sherlock’s face is not unlike a slap, reminding John of his promise to himself, and he forces a smile up at Sherlock in reassurance.

If Sherlock has found an Alpha- found _anyone-_ who interests him like _that_... who might make him happy? John refuses to allow himself to interfere with that in any way. Regardless of the snapping, snarling Alpha inside him, clamouring to wrest Sherlock away from Irene's clutches and assert his claim.

No matter what that pathetically possessive Alpha seems to think, Sherlock isn't, and never will be, _his._

 

* * *

 

“Go on. Impress a girl.” Irene says, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder to press a kiss against the perfect curve of his cheekbone.

John breathes deeply through his nose and takes a measured sip of tea to keep himself from showing any reaction. Sherlock’s eyes flicker rapidly back and forth, the way they do sometimes when he’s thinking, snapping toward the kiss for the barest moment before he begins to speak. He rapidly delivers his conclusion in a tone that, as always, implies it to be painfully obvious and then lifts his eyes from the screen to focus in on John expectantly.

When John simply stares back at him in baffled amazement, he huffs condescendingly and rattles off a detailed explanation of his deduction, then rises to hand the phone back to Irene.

“Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John's expressed that thought in every possible variant available to the English language.” Sherlock announces to her dismissively, and John fights the urge to slide under the table and die of humiliation. As if she didn't already think him a pathetic excuse for an Alpha. _Ta for that Sherlock._

“I would have you right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy, twice.” She informs him intensely as she stares up at him, not moving her eyes from his for a movement. Sherlock stares back at her without response, his expression completely unreadable. _Might have done that as well_ , John thinks, a touch hysterically.

He casts a sidelong glance toward a particular stretch of countertop in the kitchen. _Well,_ _maybe not on the_ desk _, per say._ The thought has him drifting back to those two long, decadent days, wrapped up together in Sherlock's bed… and on, um, various other surfaces within the flat. Fingers grasping against sweat-slick skin, and Sherlock panting words into the curve of John's neck. No, he supposes he never did get Sherlock to beg for _mercy_.

Only for _more_.

After several long moments of silence, Sherlock prompts John back to attention with an offhanded request. “John, please can you check those flight schedules, see if I'm right?”

“Yeah, I'm on it, yeah.” John coughs. He turns his attention to his laptop, desperately willing away his sudden erection and hoping that if either of him notice his embarrassed flush, they'll assume it's in reaction to her words. As he sets to it, Sherlock continues on, practically oblivious to John's very presence. He hasn't taken his attention from Irene for a moment; of _course_ he's not going to notice John's absolutely mortifying state, or bumbling reaction.

“I've never begged for mercy in my life.” Sherlock announces haughtily.

“Twice, “ she reiterates fervently, entirely undeterred by Sherlock’s denial, and the stricken Alpha inside of John howls.

 

* * *

 

Much later, Sherlock’s still in a semi-catatonic state of deduction in his chair; so deep in his mind that no outside stimulus registers. Irene curls up across from him in John’s chair and watches, with a proprietary gleam in her eyes, as if he’s already hers.

And maybe he is.

Either way, it sets John’s teeth on edge. More than anything, he just needs to escape the flat; to escape Irene Adler and her smug, cat-like presence. He texts Stamford and arranges to meet him at the pub for a pint. It takes some time, but he manages to locate his keys in the kitchen, beneath a pile of mangled… circuit boards? He’s not sure he wants to know what Sherlock’s going to attempt to do with those.

“Soon as he’s figured out... whatever it is, he’ll just sort of… switch back on again.” He informs her as he strides back into the sitting room, shrugging into his jacket. “He doesn’t have any concept of time when he’s having a think like this, though, so it’s anyone’s guess when that’ll be. But generally he just starts up, mid-conversation.”

“Mid-conversation?” She arches a perfect brow. “Am I meant to be speaking to him?”

“Not you. Me.” He says, more than a tad spitefully, allowing himself one small concession to pettiness. “As best I can figure, he’s got his own version of me somewhere in _there,_ ” he waves his hand in a vague little circle in the direction of Sherlock’s head, before turning to head out the door. “It helps him process, I think, talking it out. So he does just that; carries on talking to me whether I’m here or not.”

“How can you stand it?” Irene’s voice pipes up from behind him.

“Stand what?” He questions snappishly, turning to face her. “Him not noticing I’ve gone?”

“Mmm, you might not be bonded, but you do love him. I’ve never met a more hopelessly _devoted_ Alpha. It’s _adorable_.” She says it the same way anyone else might say _pathetic_ or _appalling,_ and shakes her head pityingly. “But I don’t know how you stand it; living with him, being at his constant beck and call, catering to his every whim, and not _having_ him.”

 _I_ have _had him,_ he wants to tell her _, in every possible way that you could imagine._ But he holds his tongue. He doesn't know why he doesn’t just shatter her illusions about Sherlock’s naive, virginal state once and for all. He tries to tell himself it's out of respect for Sherlock’s privacy, but he knows that’s not the truth. For some reason, he wants to keep the knowledge for himself somehow. His and Sherlock’s and no one else’s.

_Intimate._

So keeps his face deliberately placid, and gives nothing away, refusing to rise to her bait.

“He’s so… deliciously above it all, isn’t he?” She leans forward, as if to let him in on a delightful secret. “The ones who seem like they’re untouchable always taste the sweetest once they crack.”

“Omegas _are_ people too you know; not playthings. They’re just like you or I or any Beta.” He responds tiredly, exhausted by her constant attempts to provoke him. She hums disinterestedly, as though she’ll have to take his word for it; classic Alpha arrogance. He supposes, to her, everyone’s either a plaything, a stepping stone, or a tool to make use of.

“I’ve actually never particularly seen the allure of Omegas,” she continues nonchalantly. “There’s just something so much more _decadent_ about a female Alpha, you know. All that power, that challenge; it's pure sex for simple _glorious_ sake of it. None of that simpering delicacy, or the incessant desire to _breed_. But him… hmm. You could almost mistake him for an Alpha, couldn't you?” She tilts her head as if thoughtful, and bites her lip lasciviously. “Makes me want to sink my _teeth_ in.”

John fights back the instinctive urge to posture territorially; to snarl and drive her away from _his_ Omega. He shakes his head to force the thought away, as usual, pushing that hostile Alpha inside of him firmly back down into the darkest corner of his mind. He breathes deeply through his nose and stares at her silently, willing her to do her worst. She stares back, eyes cold and calculating.

“Deny it all you like Dr. Watson; you wish that he belonged to you. But he doesn’t. And frankly, even if he _did_ , I’d hardly be deterred. I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.”

John laughs ruefully at that shameless admission. It’s almost refreshing to hear something honest out of her. “Sherlock doesn’t _belong_ to anyone, and he never will. The sooner you get that out of your head, the sooner you might actually get somewhere.” And with that, he turns to go, heading for the stairs.

“Maybe he doesn’t,” she says to his retreating back. “But _you_ do.”

He refuses to stop or let himself look back.

 

* * *

 

When he returns home, they’re both gone, the fire is doused on the hearth. A quick glance down the hall finds Sherlock’s bedroom door gaping open, revealing a dark empty room beyond. It isn’t until then that he allows himself to admit exactly what he’d been fearing for a moment.

He doesn’t know what he might have done, if he’d returned home to… _that_.

He releases the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and lets the the tension drain from him. Wherever they are, whatever they’re doing, at least they’re not here, flaunting their infatuation in front of him like a red flag in front of a bull. He turns to climb the darkened stairway up to his own bedroom.

If he doesn’t manage to drift off to sleep until he hears Sherlock’s lone footsteps returning late in the night, that’s no one’s business but his own.


End file.
